The Truth is Laundry
by CSuzy
Summary: Surely Mulder, someone with a degree from Oxford can figure out how to get sheets on his bed!" "Don't be so quick...since when is sheer overwhelming brilliance coupled with common sense?" "I see your point."


~*~*~*~

The Truth is Laundry

by CSuzyQ

~*~*~*~

2630 Hegal Place

Alexandria, VA

Sunday morning....early

I stand in my apartment doorway, close my eyes, take a deep breath and let it out slowly. I think I'm ready now.

I would give anything if I didn't have to drag my laundry down four flights of stairs to that dark dank place in the basement called a laundry room.

I punch the down button and rest. While I wait for the car to arrive, I continue my mental rant.

Who would have thought that someone who sends out his shirts and suits to the cleaners would have *this* much laundry anyway?

I look down to see the accumulation at my feet: two hampers, one jug of laundry detergent, hangers and a box of dryer fabric softener sheets. I know, I know...I don't look like the fabric softener type, do I? Almost too Martha Stewart for a bachelor, right?

I made the mistake of complaining to Scully last winter about my socks and sweats becoming up close and personal. Every time I went looking for a pair of socks one of them was inevitably bonded to one of my sweatshirts at the bottom of the basket. As I forced them to part company, I was treated to a shock as they snapped, crackled and popped their objections. Next thing I knew she had talked me into buying a box of Snuggle dryer sheets.

Personally, "Snuggle" in the "Cuddle up fresh" scent conjures up a more delightful thought than laundry. I smile as I think of Scully and me "snuggled" together on her couch, eating popcorn and drinking wine while watching a video that we argued over renting. (Of course, she won. I conceded defeat.)

My soap bubble bursts as I audibly hear her recite the unwritten FBI policy in my ear. "Mulder, male and female FBI agents will not consort with one another."

Screw the damn policy.

As the elevator arrives, I reach through its open doors, punching the STOP button. This gives me extra time to drag the heavy hampers into the car. After hauling my load, I hit "B" and deactivate the STOP button.

Guess I should be happy I don't have to lug it out to the car and to the local Laundromat. Have you seen what they get for a load of wash down there? Highway robbery! At least the washers and dryers here are a _bit_ more reasonable.

FBI agents are not, by any stretch of the imagination, over paid and wealthy. It looks like a lot until you tally up the cost of living in the DC area. I had few choices back when I first moved here. It was live fashionably and dress conservatively or dress fashionably and live in a dump.

I chose the latter of the two.

Scully was lucky to find a nice place, not overly expensive, with one of those compact, stacking Maytag laundry centers in a closet off the kitchen. Women are just more tuned into checking for those little perks than men are, I suppose.

Perhaps because it's Sunday and people are sleeping in, the elevator makes an express trip to the basement. I glance at my watch.

6:00 AM.

On the other hand, I imagine it's a bit early for anyone except me. If I were smart, I'd be doing this at 3:00am when I can't sleep. Although, I really don't expect much competition at this hour, which suits me fine since I'm not in the mood for small talk.

With a thud, I arrive at my destination. As the doors swish open, the lovely Eau de Mildew greets my nostrils. It's a ragrance that seems to permeate every inch of the basement.

The laundry room is on the left, just down the hall from the infamous furnace room. Every time I come down here I am reminded of that misbegotten excuse for an author, Philip Padgett, and his novel method of murder and romance.

Arriving at the laundry room door, I open it, reaching inside to turn on the light. I am greeted by a resounding "pop" as the bulb blows and the room is plunged into darkness.

"Shit!"

I retreat to the furnace room to see if that's there the super stores his stash of extra bulbs. The Fates smile upon me and I emerge with a fresh one. "Tada!"

Now my only problem would be getting enough light from the dimly lit hallway to see to replace the old bulb. I prop the door open, for the added illumination, but manage to stub my toe anyway on the leg of the folding table.

"Son of a b..." I explode, reaching down to rub the offended body part. I knew I should have put on my shoes. Socks are not shoes, Mulder. It's no wonder your socks never look white.

Don't you ever use any bleach? I hear Scully admonish me.

"Then why aren't you here helping me with this, Scully." I hear myself answer into the emptiness. Misery _does_ love company! Especially your company! I would be a lot less miserable if you were here.

Of course, we wouldn't be doing this at the crack of dawn if you were here. More likely it would be during a quiet evening, sharing dinner ogether in front of the TV, practicing our own

version of fluff and fold.

A power struggle for the remote control would be more entertaining than this.

Just inside the laundry door I spot the row of four washers and three dryers. They stand at attention like metallic box soldiers waiting for their orders. It appears one of them will not be taking orders as it is sporting an "Out of Order" sign. I huff with disgust, growling my disapproval.

Ok, so maybe this will take longer than I thought.

The object of the game is to do as many loads concurrently and end my torment as quickly as possible. Hell, looks like just the sheets off the damn waterbed are a whole load. I suppose I should have washed them before now, but...

It's despicable, I know, but 90 percent of the time I still don't sleep on them. When one sleeps alone, the couch is just as comfortable. (Sighing loudly, I tell my mind not to go there....)

The towels and sweats will round out another load. That leaves one washer for everything else: jeans, socks, underwear, the few casual shirts I own and T-shirts.

No sense in putting off the inevitable. I slam dunk large quantities of the aforementioned articles into each of three washers. "Yes, three points! The crowd goes wild. Mulder's the man; he's got game!"

I follow my tour de force slam dunkin' with liberal shots of liquid detergent.

Dropping in the required small change, I push each washer knob with vengeance imagining them to be the questionable likes of Krycek, his cigarette smoking friend, and AD Kersh.

Step one. Complete.

Now I must *wait* which is probably the biggest waste of time in the entire process.

The logical choice at this point is to return to my apartment. I hesitate to leave my clothes unattended in this not so pleasant environment but the heavy duty hauling has stimulated my appetite. My stomach growls as if on cue. Breakfast is not a half bad thought! Listening to my stomach, I catch the next elevator to the fourth floor.

As I hold the refrigerator door open I realize how pitiful and few my choices are. One quart of partially consumed homogenized whole Vitamin D milk, a swig of Sunny Delight, an open container of prepackaged lunch meat and 4 bottles of Stewart's Root Beer, is a pitifully, poor food group representation. Guess I should have picked up a few food items the other day when Scully and I stopped at the store on the way back to the office.

Scully and food fill my thoughts simultaneously, a tantalizing combination for my poor, starving self.

I have a vision of the delicacies I might find in *her refrigerator... yogurt, sprouts, some of that real orange juice with the "just squeezed taste", salad fixings, eggs, a small container of 1% milk, cottage cheese, a loaf of five grain bread with no preservatives and bee pollen. It helps keep it fresher, Mulder.

You'd think she wouldn't want anything to do with bees. Makes me cringe just thinking of it.

Shaking that nightmare from my head, I settle for a bowl of cereal. Any port in a storm, as long it fills my stomach. Good thing I grabbed the Sunday paper on the way in. I can at least read the comics while I attempt to swallow each spoonful of right-on-the-verge-of-stale cereal.

Time flies when you're having fun. I glance at my watch. Half-time is over. Obviously, I stood in front of the open refrigerator longer than I thought. Time for the second half of my laundry hoop-o-rama.

Revived somewhat by my so called breakfast, I sprint down the four flights to the basement. It's quiet. That's a good sign. Sure enough, all the washers have finished. I start with the jeans, the sweats and the towels. I pull the sodden masses of twisted garments from the washers and select a dryer to deposit them in. I follow suit with the rest of my clothes and the sheets. Finally, I pull a softener sheet from the box to throw in on top of each dryer load, deposit the requisite change in each slot and start the machines.

More time to kill. Again I make a mad dash up the steps thinking that perhaps I won't need to run today after all this exercise in the stairwell.

I stand in the doorway of my apartment, bent over, hands on my knees, catching my breath. I try to decide what to do next.

Coffee.

I do believe it is past time for coffee. Having regained my composure, I turn and head for the kitchen. Yes, a cup of crapuccino and the newspaper should make a very pleasant time killer. I grab the Washington Post from the kitchen table where I left it earlier. With mug clutched in one hand and the Post in the other I saunter back into the living room.

Dropping the heavy Sunday edition on the coffee table, I sit on the couch. I take my first sip of the hot liquid and burn my tongue. This hasn't been my day it seems as I return to the kitchen for an ice cube to cool my blistered taste buds.

Reading the paper can be informative and discouraging. Is there ever any good news anymore? Not on the front page anyway. "Investigation continues in...." "Authorities examine physical evidence..." "Government officials delve into inconsistencies..." "Autopsy reveals..." "Local police probe..."

My mind drifts to feast on a more pleasant use for those verbs.

Or, more specifically, I fixate on someone whose physical evidence I hunger to investigate, examine, delve into and probe.

I slump back against the couch to gratify that part of my mind that would rather fantasize about Scully than do laundry or read the paper. I may physically leave her at the office on Fridays but somehow she always manages to "follow" me home.

Coffee slops from my still full mug onto my gym shorts and T-shirt. A sigh escapes my lips. Is laundry ever really "finished?"

Another hour has passed and I decide to check on my clothes. Again I trot to the basement. One of the dryers is done. I can guess which one.

The sheets.

They are warm and soft as I gather them up entangling myself in them. Warm and soft, "cuddle up fresh".

See, Mulder, I told you you'd like fabric softener. I swear I hear her voice but turning around to look, I see I am still alone.

With my nose buried in the conflux of warm fragrant fabric in my arms, I take the elevator back to the fourth floor, carefully juggling everything as I press the appropriate buttons. Gingerly, I push through the apartment door, kicking it closed with my foot.

As I move to my bedroom, dropping my bundle in the center of the bed, I remember getting them off the bed hadn't been too hard. Getting them back on...well, that appears to be an altogether different story.

Perhaps....just perhaps I should attempt to get some help here.

Besides, what harm is there in asking? If she is going to "follow" me home for the weekend, she might as well be here.

My face lights up with an enthusiasm for laundry that had not been there before now.

My cell phone is within easy grasp on the bedside table. Peeking at my watch I decide 8:30am is not an unreasonable time to see if Scully is up. I hit the speed dial for Scully's apartment.

"Hello?"

"Mornin' sunshine, did I wake you?"

"No, no, not at all." I hear her stifle a yawn. "Mulder, why are you calling me at 8:30 on a Sunday morning?"

"Nothing big." Playing it very nonchalant at this point, I continue, "I was just doing my laundry."

And thinking about you, I add mentally.

"And?"

"And, you know my waterbed? The one I found in my bedroom after we came back from New Mexico?"

"Yeah, so?"

"I took the sheets off to wash them and I wasn't sure I could manage to get them back on without some help. I've never made a waterbed before." This is the place where I hesitate and project my best bachelor-up-a-creek-without-a-paddle voice. Not an easy task unless you happen to be talented.

"Do you have any plans today?"

"You want to me to help you make your bed?" There is a dumbfounded note in her voice and I can tell she's testing her systems to make sure she's awake and hearing me correctly.

"Mulder, it's 8:30 on a SUNDAY MORNING."

"Yeah...Well you know what they say about the early bird, Scully."

"I'll give you worms...you-"

Ok...I don't know what she was going to say there. Something seemed to get muffled in the translation and I'm not sure I want her to repeat it.

Rising to the challenge I continue, "Well, I figured two heads and an extra set of hands would better than me attempting to figure it out on my own."

"Surely Mulder, someone with a degree from Oxford can figure out how to get sheets on his bed!"

"Don't be so quick...since when is sheer overwhelming brilliance coupled with common sense?"

"I see your point."

I hold my breath.

"OK, Mulder, but how soon do you need me?"

Taking a quick glance to my tented shorts, I maintain my control. "Ah, just whenever you're ready. Say an hour or two? That give you enough time?"

"Yeah, sure. I just need to catch a bite to eat, shower and

dress and I'm on my way."

Be still my heart. "Great. Sounds great."

My heart wants to leap up into my throat as I punch the "end" button. "YES! He scores!" Well, perhaps not quite _score_ but at least the ball has moved down court.

Coming back to reality, I remember what I was trying to accomplish before my call.

Laundry.

I make another mad dash to the basement. The dryers are done and I cram the clean clothes with the bundle of empty hangers back in the hampers to transport them. They aren't nearly as heavy now as I maneuver them back to the elevator. It seems odd but I don't waste time questioning it. Another express elevator trip deposits me back on the fourth floor.

The stuffed hampers find their way into my closet. I find my way to the shower since I haven't had one yet today. I shave quickly at the sink before shedding my clothes and tossing them in a corner. tepping under the hot spray, I know a cold dousing would do more for my "condition", but damn, I hate cold showers. A quick body lather, a hasty shampoo and a thorough rinse, and I am out drying myself.

In my haste I have forgotten to grab clean boxers so I end up streaking through the bedroom to the closet to dig for some in the hampers. Plan your work and work your plan I always say.

Sure.

Hopefully, the rest of my plan will not go awry.

Dressed and sportin' a 'tude, I glance at my watch. I realize she should be here shortly. I perform a perfunctory straightening in the kitchen, just basic stuff like brushing the crumbs from the table and counters to the floor and stacking the dirty dishes on just on side of the sink.

I return to the bedroom, pulling out one of those overflowing clothes hampers, and drag it back into the living room. Situating myself on the couch, I start folding.

That is where I am when the knock comes on my door and the familiar, "Mulder, it's me" filters through the heavy wood. I hear her key and then she steps in, wearing navy leggings topped with a navy tunic sweater and running shoes. She turns to close the door behind her. Her hair is pulled back but the shorter errant tendrils frame her face. My vision of loveliness flashes me a comical smile as she realizes what I am doing.

"My, aren't we the picture of domesticity?"

"You know, Scully, if you don't get to folding this stuff right from the dryer it ends up all wrinkled."

"Oh really?"

"Yeah, and I'm opening an x-file. The case of the missing mates," I say, holding up the last two mismatched socks for her perusal.

"The dryer eats them, Mulder."

"I like the time warp theory better, myself," I say smugly, continuing my task.

"As much as watching you fold your unmentionables is stimulating, Mulder, I thought I came here to tackle your bedroom problem."

Never one to pass by a good straight line, I reach out my hand to her, "Ok, Scully, you want stimulation? Right this way", I say motioning her toward the bedroom.

"Mom always told me to be careful around these types that are leading you off to the bedroom." She mutters under her breath, eyeing him cautiously.

I step to the side of the bed, cheerfully indicating my leaning tower of bed sheets. "I tried, Scully, but for some reason I couldn't get them to fit right," I lie.

Scully stifles a laugh.

"What?" I exclaim incredulously.

"Satin, Mulder?" A smile brightens her face and her eyes light

up. "_Black_ satin?"

"Yeah, they came with the bed." I say with mock hurt. "And I happen to like them."

She just eyeballs me and shakes her head. "Sure, fine, whatever. Let's find the bottom sheet. That would be the one with the elastic, Mulder."

I knew that. Does she think I'm totally ignorant?

She approaches the bed and sorts through the silky mounds of fragrant fabric with a woman's expertise looking for the "bottom sheet". Finally, she holds up an elasticized corner andsays with authority, "_This_ is the bottom sheet, Mulder."

It dangles provocatively from her hand.

Plan my work; work my plan.

I continue to watch her separate the two large sheets from each other, tossing the pillow cases and the flat sheet to the side.

"Get on the other side of the bed, Mulder," she orders me.

"Yes, ma'am," I respond, moving to obey.

She throws me one of the elasticized corners and tells me to fit it over the top corner of the mattress while she does the same on her side. She comments as she works, "They're making the sheets different these days putting the elastic on the sides instead of the top and bottom. It was a bit confusing at first because I couldn't figure out why they didn't fit. Put the bottom corner on now," she instructs me.

"Mulder, are you growing hot house tomatoes in here?" She pulls at the neckline of her tunic.

My next intake of air catches in my throat as she continues by grabbing the bottom of her sweater and pulling it off. I hold my breath for what seems to be an eternity...and release it when I see her tank top.

Is it warm in here? Who am I kidding? Must be all this _hard_ work.

I watch intently as she moves to the foot of the bed and with amazing strength lifts the mattress just enough to slide the last corner on. She straightens the sides a bit, tucking them in and smiles at me with satisfaction. "Voila!"

I stare at her in awe. So smooth and taut.

The sheets, Mulder, I remind myself, the sheets.

You could bounce a dime in the center of the bed the sheets are stretched so taut and smooth. I circle back around to her side. "Wow, that looks great!" I say, complimenting her work.

"Hey, Scully, have you ever slept on satin sheets?" I say, envisioning her sleeping on a pillowy cloud of satin sheets wearing some of those soft creamy satin shortie pajamas.

"No, Mulder, I never have. I have never felt moved to spend the kind of money it would take to put satin sheets on my queen sized bed. Sheets like this must be terribly expensive."

"Then you need to sit on the side here, lay back and see what you think." I place my hand at the small of her back, moving her closer to the bed and turning her so all she has to do is sit.

I read hesitation and doubt in her expressive blue eyes as if she is trying to calculate the worst that could happen if she follows through with my suggestion. I have nonchalantly picked up the pillows and slipped them into their satiny covers, lightly tossing them down on the mattress along with the top sheet.

Eventually, she decides it must be safe enough so with a wary sideways glance at me, she sits. I turn to sit beside her, our combined weight causing ripples in the mattress.

I pull the pillows into position behind us. "Now you need to lie back to get the full effect."

"Mulder..." She starts to object and stand, but I gently push her backwards onto the pillow, reclining my own lanky body beside hers. Stretching out on my side and resting my head on my hand, I ask, "Well, what do you think?"

"I think I have let you have maneuvered me into a very compromising situation, Mulder."

I reach across her body, brushing her breasts lightly with my arm as I grasp the top sheet piled on the other side of her. I take note that her nipples are pertly standing at attention as I purposefully drag my arm and the sheet back to cover her, furthering the sensual experience.

"I think I'm experiencing déjà vu," she says, staring straight up, attempting to avoid my direct stare or more pointedly the "compromising situation".

"I picture a mirror up there, Mulder," she muses, indicating the ceiling.

"Or did I dream that?"

"I think you dreamt it," I say, momentarily glancing upward, thanking my lucky stars I had that mirror removed. Where it came from, I still don't know. The bed was bad enough, but the mirror made my bedroom feel too much like a sleazy bordello, even for my fine arts tastes.

I notice she looks delectable lying on my bed, her creamy skinand fiery auburn tendrils framed in black satin. Her eyes leave the ceiling, while mine continue their visual feast. I pull mine away as well. She looks at me steadily, calmly.

Finding I can't help myself, I lean in to kiss her. I watch as a fleeting look of panic crosses her face, disappearing just as my lips claim hers. She tenses at my touch as though she's contemplating pushing me away and squirming out of my grasp.

However, it's not long before she surrenders and I feel her relax under me. Tentatively she drapes an arm around my neck and runs her fingers through my hair. I believe she is thoroughly enjoying the moment.

She whimpers her dismay as I pull away.

"You know, Scully, this is all your fault," I say in all seriousness.

"_My_ fault?!" she retorts, feigning anger and attempting to wiggle from my grasp again. She's beautiful when she's angry.

"Just how the hell is this _my_ fault?"

"It was those Snuggle dryer sheets you _made_ me buy. You know, the ones with the 'cuddle up fresh' scent. One good whiff of these clean sheets and I knew you had to be here." I kiss her again slowly and purposefully.

"You tricked me!" she mumbles into my mouth as I cover her lips again with my own. I don't let her voice another word of objection because she would be lying. I can tell she is enjoying this as much as I am. Her body is refuting her admonishing words to me. My hands are busy discovering her hidden secrets as she decides to launch her own explorations. She toes off her running shoes and "snuggles" closer.

"So...Scully, how do you like the sheets?"

"I'm not sure I've gotten a good feel for them yet," she mutters in her pleasure. "How long do I have to make up my mind?"

"All afternoon if you like." Her face is animated and eager as I speak.

"But only on one condition."

She scowls at me playfully. "And what would that be?"

"That you help me wash them again later after you've made up your mind."

"It's a deal."

~*~*~


End file.
